


Tight Spaces

by epithetta



Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/M, porn battle challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-05
Updated: 2011-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-19 00:48:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epithetta/pseuds/epithetta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which Owen wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tight Spaces

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Porn Battle V: Enclosed Spaces

_Her hair falls on her neck and he thinks to himself that he'd like to pull it, pull it to tug her mouth around his cock better. Her mouth is so tiny, really, wet and hot and he wants to unhinge her jaw with his dick. She slobbers on it, spit leaking from the corners of her mouth, and she gags a little, but she wants it, she does, so she lunges her head forward to take it all in, so that he knows that she's a good girl._

 _He might even tell her that._

Across the room she sets down an artefact and reaches for the next one, but it falls to the floor and he watches her skirt climb into the crack of her arse when she stoops for it, bending at the waist like she doesn't even know that when she does, every man's gaze is riveted to it. Ianto looks away, flustered, and Jack, well, Jack appreciates things like this, like a Matisse or a sleek Corvette. Owen just wants to fuck it.

 _She wiggles her arse against his cock in the showers and he figures that the condom has lubricant on it, even though the water has washed some of it away. Her hair is plastered to her back, the sides of her face, and her breasts bounce when he positions her in front of him so that he can see them in the mirror. Just looking at her in the mirror, her gaze focused and reflected, bounced off the glass, makes him want to part her ass cheeks and push in without any warning._

 _  
_It's evident that she's never done this before, but she says something soft over her shoulder, breathy and not like herself. Her voice is being squeezed through her too tight throat, lungs gasping for air because she's hot and panting for him. When he pushes into her arse, the muscle there is tight, so very tight that he has to stop for himself as much as he does so that she can relax._   
_

_When he fucks her, one hand on her clit, she rolls her hips in a little swaying circle because that's how she shows she's happy, little hip twitches and thrusts like she's using a goddamn hula hoop._

 _Everything about her is tight, balled up: her shoulders, her muscled arse, her tight hole, even her tiny clit that he pulls at with his fingers, and her high-pitched noises coming from her throat. In this moment, she might unwind, or fold herself inward another layer before she comes. He likes the race to the finish with her because it's like jeans that are too small, or frottage in an aeroplane chair with everyone around._

She turns the artefact over in her hand and frowns, then sets it back on the lab table. Her fingers dust the remaining artefacts, looking for something useful before she sighs and turns back to her workstation, her hands rubbing together as if they haven't liked what they touched. Or no, she's tired, and her hands rise to her temples to massage there. Her blouse pulls against her breasts, and it's cold in the Hub today, the brisk wind swirling in when Jack uses the lift.

He can watch her then, while she doesn't see him, or doesn't know he's looking, biro cracking in his teeth, fingers working the stem of it. He can round the corner of the desks and fencing and lean on the rail while her eyes close and she makes little moaning noises at the sensation of rubbing her head.

 _Her desk is a clutter of equipment when he slams her back onto it, papers and things that shouldn't really be tossed about being tossed about. That little skirt slides up like peeling shrink-wrap from a package of meat, and he doesn't even bother with the panties, not when she's this wet and they're that small. He can push them aside, tiny lacy things meant to be bitten and cooed over and pulled tight into the cleft of her arse when he twists the crotch around his finger for a second._

 _Her hair fans out all over the desk, her cheeks flushed, but she doesn't dare close her eyes, no, because she wants to see him, really, to look at him and watch him loom above her, one hand dragging her knickers aside, the other rolling on the condom before thrusting inside her and it's tighter than her mouth, not as good as her arse, but wetter, more engulfing, shifting around him when he moves._

 _He loves the little noises she makes when he pumps with her in rhythm, lifting her hips for him, making her little hula hoop gyrations, her heels banging out a morse code on the legs of the desk. Her breasts shift with the movements, and she sucks two fingers into her mouth before lowering them to her clit, which is nice because then he can watch and still concentrate on what he's doing, which is to turn them both inside out._

 _He might say her name when he comes, when he is bent backwards and buried in her and she convulses around him, her muscles almost pulling him in. He could breathe it out once, make it a promise, make it something it's not; he could murmur it into the chilled air of the Hub, let it echo up to the upper levels so that anyone lingering might could hear it._

Tosh pushes up her glasses and glances at him. "Owen? Is there something you needed?"

He turns away from the desk, one hand running down the sharp edge of the corner. "Tosh. No." The biro clamps in his jaw. "Nothing at all, actually."

END


End file.
